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You Don't Meet In An Inn is a podcast about exploring obscure tabletop role playing games with a diverse cast of rotating players.

Hosted by Christine Blight and Austin Ramsay.

Homeforced Into Hell

Sep 20, 2017

Another short story sharing the lore of Nexus, specifically some more details about Homeline. I rather like this story for its setting exposition told through a character lens. Also that last paragraph.



I'm from Homeforce. Well, technically the reality that Homeforce originated in but the two have essentially become inseparable to anyone not from there, and many who are. We're one of the few realities that got our shit together, probably due to our age and stable physical laws. After several thousand years of conflict we finally managed to unite all our nations, creating a successful world government.

Now we try to bring that stability to less civilized realities who are still at war with themselves, or aren't ready for unguided access to the multiverse. Of course, not everyone sees it that way. A lot see us as fascists, and others as too lenient. You can't please everyone that's for damn sure.

A big part of this is controlling gate access at Nexus. Homeforce has some of the best predictors in its pay and regularly predicts gates others don't see coming. Which is how I wound up here on this ass backwards planet with nothing but my keys, body armour, and nerve rifle.

There was one predictor on staff years and years back, kinda crazy looking, who used tarot cards of all things to predict. Her success rate was about 40%, but she had the longest range of any predictor we had, so all of her predictions were logged and compared at a later date to more reliable predictors' findings. I was standing at my post when this crazy lookin' granny busts in waving some papers, screamin' about how we had to vacate.

I was about to start calmin' her down when the familiar whine of a gate forming started. So loud like it was right in my skull. Turns out it actually was. Found this out after the boom opening of the gate which grabbed me and her arm, but little else. The arm still had the report in it. Long before she was retired, the crazy bitch had predicted the damned thing appearing right where I was standing for a split second, but no one had acted on it because it was too ridiculous to waste a predictor going over it with the recent budget issues.

So now I'm here, in the darkest fuckin' jungle I never could've imagined, shootin' goddamn killer chickens to stay alive. Thank god my nerve rifle has a 25 year power cell.